


Tumblr Fic Prompts

by scarletjedi



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series, Star Wars - All Media Types, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Tumblr Prompt, fic anthology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-16
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-24 19:28:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9781871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarletjedi/pseuds/scarletjedi
Summary: I'm archiving mytumblrfics. All the self-contained prompts will be found there.Not all the chapters are NSFW. Those that are are labeled so.





	1. Star Trek - Waking Up With Amnesia AU - Spones

**Author's Note:**

> these works are all unbeta'd. prompt fills that were part of ongoing fics are not archived here, as they are part of other works.

Not like this. 

(You’re a damned computer!)

Never like this. 

(I like them...better than I like you!)

“Spock?”

(Are you out of your Vulcan mind?)

Dark eyes opened, and McCoy leaned in closer. He didn’t want to crowd Spock--head wounds were tricky, and even with modern medicine the brain could react in ways no doctor could yet understand--but he couldn’t make himself stay farther away. “Spock? _Ashayam_? Can you hear me?” 

Spock blinked, a faint line between his eyes. “My hearing is adequate. I assume there was a concussive blast of some kind?” 

McCoy’s fluttered closed as he breathed. “Yes, Darling. Down on the planet. Some young hothead thought he’d help by planting compression grenades--landmines--and was surprised when it all went to hell.” 

The faint line deepened and Spock tilted his head. “Doctor, are you this familiar with all your patients?” 

McCoy froze, a trickle of fear running down his back like sweat. “Spock...don’t you know me?” 

An eyebrow twitched upwards, for the first time in years condemning McCoy’s intelligence rather than sharing a secret joke. “I do not,” Spock said, his tone razor sharp. It had been _years_ \--McCoy simply didn’t have the skin for it anymore. “I am sure I would recognize a medical professional whose actions were less than professional.” 

McCoy stepped back, his heart feeling like it was squeezed, and dropped down into his boots. ”My apologies, commander. I will put in to have you transferred to another, immediately. Dr. M’Benga has spent some time on Vulcan--I’m sure he’ll be to your standards.” 

They would find the answer--McCoy _would_ find the answer to this. 

He simply couldn’t handle another broken heart.


	2. Star Wars - Literally Bumping Into Each Other AU - ObiQui

“Oh!” 

It was all Qui-Gon heard before impact, the heavy weight of another body as it crashed into him, knocking him back a step even as his arms came up automatically to brace the other man. Qui-Gon was a tall man and broad, and it took quite a bit to knock him over. The other man, however, while Qui-Gon could feel how solid he was, came only just to his nose. 

Really, Qui-Gon was glad the other man wasn’t a bit taller--he’d run smack into Qui-Gon’s front, and he really didn’t relish his nose getting broken again.

“Easy,” Qui-Gon said, and stopped when he got his first good look at the man who had crashed into him. 

Red hair, with golden highlights from long time spent in the sun--a red beard neatly trimmed--deep green eyes that shone, even through the man’s sheepish expression. 

Wow, Qui-Gon thought. He’s beautiful.

Only then did he notice two things: One, the man was talking. Two, there was warm liquid soaking into his shoes and left trouser leg. 

Then, he realized what the man was saying. “...sorry. Oh, it’s all of your shoes! Those pants aren’t dry clean only, are they? I’ll pay for the cleaning--”

Gods, even his voice was charming--a deep tenor with lyrical vowels. “Don’t worry about it,” Qui-Gon said, and the beautiful man stopped talking. His neck flushed a deep pink, the color just appearing on his cheeks over the coverage of his beard, but his eyes grew dark. “They’re just pants,” Qui-Gon went on, not really listening to what he was saying as the man swallowed and Qui-Gon’s eyes were drawn to the movement of hs throat. “Are you hurt?” 

The man laughed, a self-deprecating chuckle, and said wryly, “Mostly my pride. And you?” 

“Fine,” Qui-Gon said, and tightened his hold on the man’s elbow when he moved to step away. The man stopped, his eyes widening. “You coffee--let me buy you a new one.” 

“Oh no, I walked into you,” he protested. “I couldn’t--”

“Please,” Qui-Gon interrupted. “It’s not everyday an attractive man throws himself at me, and I desperately want to buy you a drink and learn your name.” 

“I didn’t throw--” the man began, a bit testily, and gods even that was attractive as passion sparked fire in those eyes--but then Qui-Gon’s proposal must have sunk in, as he stopped. “You--I--” His eyes raked over Qui-Gon’s body; Qui-Gon knew he wasn’t a young man anymore, but he was hardly old, and he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of--even before the young man licked his lips. “My name is Obi-Wan,” he said. “And I would love for you to buy me a coffee.” He grinned, an impish humor lighting his eyes, and Qui-Gon couldn’t help but laugh--both at the cheek, and the promise a possible night to come. 

It was certainly worth ruining a pair of shoes.


	3. Star Wars - Two Miserable People Meeting At A Wedding AU - ObiRex

Obi-Wan was happy for Anakin. 

He was. 

He *was*. Truly. 

Anakin deserved to be happy, and Padme was a *wonderful* woman. Not only could she keep up with Anakin’s shenanigans, but Anakin has *calmed* during their courtship. She was good for him, and, Obi-Wan thought, he was good for her, as well. 

So, yes. He was happy for Anakin. 

But he *hated* weddings. 

There was nothing quite like a wedding to remind Obi-Wan that he was *alone*. Again. (He had despaired of ever finding the one after Qui-Gon’s passing, and Quinlan had never been more than a friend who Obi-Wan would fuck when they were both single and bored and drunk. He had hoped, with Satine, that he had finally found someone...but in the end they had been just too different). 

Which was why Obi-Wan was here, at the bar, and not in the main room watching Anakin slowly sway with his new bride. (But he *was* happy for them). 

“Scotch and soda,” a rough voice said next to him, and Obi-Wan registered a warm body climbing onto the stool next to him. “Neat. Make it two.” 

Sounds like you like weddings as much as I do, my friend.

“You could say that again,” the voice said with an amused snort, and Obi-Wan realized he’d said that out loud. He blinked, and looked at the man sitting next to him. 

Darker skin, dark eyes, and a shock of brilliantly blond hair, cut very short. Strong jaw, and a supple mouth that was twisted in a wry smirk. 

Oh fuck, he was Obi-Wan’s *type*.

Obi-Wan licked his lips. “Hello,” he said. “Bride or groom?” 

“Groom,” he said. “He’s my boss, technically. I’m Rex.” 

Rex. The name rung a bell, but nothing shook loose. “Obi-Wan,” he said, and held out his hand. “Also the groom. I’m...well, family, I guess.” 

“Yeah,” Rex said, nodding at the bartender as he put down the drinks. “I know who you are. He’s talks about you a lot.” 

“Rex,” Obi-Wan said. “I have to confess, I am very drunk. And I would love to say that he talks about you, too, but I honestly and too pissed to remember.” 

Rex laughed, and Obi-Wan smiled helplessly. Rex was fuckin gorgeous when he laughed. 

“I’d also like very much to take you somewhere private and lick you all over.” 

Rex choked on his drink, and Obi-Wan patted him helpfully on the back. Well. Shoulder. 

But then Rex looked Obi-Wan over. “Sober up a bit, and I might let you.” He smiled, slow and wide and open. 

“Bartender,” Obi-Wan called. “Can I have a water? Perhaps some coffee?” In his ears, Rex’s laughter may be just enough to make this whole wretched day worth it.


	4. Star Wars - Luke Returns from Arch-To - Gen

Leia had always been able to feel Luke in her mind, as far back as she should remember. When she was a child on Alderaan, the smiling boy with the blond hair and simple clothes had been an imaginary playmate from her dreams. As a teen in the Imperial Senate, he was a longing desire to get out among the stars, to do *something* right and good and meaningful. As a Rebel, he was in instant connection, a cry of “You!” when he appeared at the door of her cell; she had never seen him before, never met him before, and yet she knew him like she knew her own self. 

When Luke had called to her, hanging desperate and wounded under Cloud City, she hadn’t questioned how she knew he was calling for her (he had always been calling for her, and her for him). After, in the search for Han and the plan to infiltrate Jabba’s palace, their connection had grown until he was the other half of her mind, calm when she was quick, solid when she was sharp. When she caught him leaving the Ewok village, told her of Vader, her heart had gone out to him in sympathy, and she had felt his heart in return. When he told her of *them*, the two of them *twins*--

She’d known. Somehow. She’d always known. 

She knew he survived the Death Star, never doubting even as the explosion filled the sky. She didn’t doubt in the hours between, when Luke was making the long trek back, dragging his (their) father’s body with him. When he had appeared in the village, she had been happy to see him, never doubting his return to her. 

Leia had never doubted his return. 

She did, however, doubt his good sense. Standing at the entrance to the landing platform, watching the pilots and other members of the resistance fill the space between her and the landing Millennium Falcon, she could feel his presence--and his chagrin. 

From everything she’d learned, every story of the Jedi she’d ever been told, they’d been incredibly wise learned masters--who had grown so wise they lost sight of their common sense. Luke was better than that, usually. Sure, he had to be pulled from his research, and Leia would occasionally find him walking the crowded base reading one of Kenobi’s old Journals, weaving through the busy foot traffic as if he was paying full attention--only to be surprised when Leia cleared her throat, standing in front of him. 

“I’m just a pilot,” he would say, downplaying the reverence of the others around him. Leia could understand that--Luke, growing on Tatooine, would have developed a thick distaste for any who claimed to be master of anything. The harshness of his homeworld had kept his wits rough, even though Luke could seem sometime made of lightness, and his smiles could brighten a hangar bay. Her brother was no fool. 

And then he had faffed right off when she had needed him the most. She knew, deep in her heart, that Luke would never abandon her. Family meant too much to him. It meant, of course, that the reason he stayed away was *greater* than family--and that meant it was of vital importance to the galaxy itself. 

If it wasn’t she’d beat him with the hilt of his own lightsaber. 

Luke, still on the ship, sent a wave of apology, that Leia brushed aside. 

Some things had to be done in person. 

Soon, the ramp was lowered, and Rey came bounding out to meet Poe and Finn, and Artoo rolled down to bump into the legs of Threepio, and Chewie--

Chewie ushered a cloaked and hooded figure down the ram before him. 

The base went quiet, watching this legend before them as he stopped at the bottom of the ramp. He lifted his hands--the synthskin on his right hand had long-since disappeared, and the metal of his fingers glinted in the sunlight--and pulled his hood from his face. HIs eyes, the same blue as their father’s, met hers from across the distance. 

Leia walked forward, the same brisque walk that had served her so well for so many years, and the members on base parted before her, leaving her an open path to her long lost twin. 

She stopped in front of him, looking up. He was shorter than he used to be, compressed with age--though she was smaller, too. His blonde hair, only starting to grey at his temples when he had left, had gone fully grey, and was longer than she was used to seeing--more like he had worn it when she had first met him, a lifetime ago. He had grown a beard--

“It’s terrible, I know,” Luke said. His voice--so familiar through the roughness of age. “But I didn’t have a razor.” 

Leia raised her eyebrow. “There weren’t any on the Falcon?” 

Luke rolled his eyes, and Leia suppressed a smile. Of course not; Han was always and forever lamenting the fact that he always forgot to buy extra shaving razors. Thinking of Han hurt--of course it did--but it hurt less, now, to think of the good things with Luke. 

“I could make you keep it,” Leia said. “Insist that you need to look the part of the distinguished Jedi Master.” 

“I look like a crazy old hermit,” Luke said. 

“You are a crazy old hermit,” Leia countered. “So there’s that.” 

Luke grinned then, and Leia too, and she reached out, pulling him into a tight hug. “You are so lucky that it was Rey who went to get you,” Leia said. “If I had found you, I would have kicked your ass.” 

Luke squeezed his arms around her, tightening his Force presence as well. He did not, she noticed, deny it.


	5. Tolkien - Outsider POV of Glorfindel - Gen

The big elf was singing again. 

Ori peered around the corner, catching sight of blond hair like brilliant, sun-lit gold, and dark skin. Naked skin. His eyes widened, and he pulled back. 

Was he *bathing*? In the *snow*?

Ori shook his head and quickly walked away. HIs question could wait. 

***

Balin pushed his glasses down his nose, looking over the frames at the scene before him. The Galadriel was sitting at the only unbroken table in the library, lending a hand to fixing the books that could be fixed from the dragon’s ire. It was quite thoughtful of her, and Balin was immensely grateful. 

...but the Lord Glorfindel was with her, lying across the table, his head handing off the edge of the table so his hair reachd down to sweet at the stone floor. He had a book in his hands and was reading quietly aloud to her. The lady looked at him indulgently, as if he was a favored child. Glorfindel, for his part, was grinning as he read. 

It was hard to believe that *this* was the balrog-slayer, this laughing, shining, child-like elf. 

***

Bifur had his days more and more often in the winter, since the war. He knew enough to know that he lost days now, instead of hours--and that he never came back to himself alone. 

This time, he blinked and was on the parapet, sitting on a rock and watching the ravens fly by. The big elf with the shining hair sat next to him. He didn’t speak, but when he noticed Bifur looking at him, he smiled and offered Bifur the crown of flowers he had mad. 

Bifur took the flowers; they smelled like spring and sun, and he placed the crown on his head. 

***

“What’s it like? Being dead?” Bilbo asked. Glorfindel looked at him in surprise, and Bilbo twisted his fingers together, a nervous habit. “I’m sorry, that was rude. You don’t have to--”

“Peaceful,” Glorfindel said. “But...the same. Like early morning, when light enters the world, but before color returns.” 

***

One of the lower rooms, between where the Dwarves had carved out their living and where the Men were living out their winter, had been converted into a tavern. It had quickly become a favorite, though they could only sell one type of beer (what Dain had brought from the Iron Hills) and one spirit (a home-brew the dwarves called SteelShine or FireShine. It was strong enough to make Glorfindel’s eyes water, and he loved it). 

Glorfindel entered the tavern now, raising his hand to the cheers of greeting that reached him. He had one destination in mind, and when his eyes saw the brilliant red hair, and the tall, pale yellow next to him, he grinned brightly. 

The dwarves of the North Mountains were charming people, frank and bold and true, but there was something about those two--Gimli and Legolas--who reminded Glorfindel of those he had known I his youth. 

Gimli, already red-faced, raised his tankard when Glorfindel drew near, and Legolas shifted closer to Gimli to give Glorfindel a seat. 

Yes; it was always good to dine and drink with friends.


	6. Star Wars - Bail Lives AU - Gen

Leia found herself hovering in the back of the cockpit, watching as Han flew them down into the atmosphere. She kept her eyes straight ahead as she recited the code clearance, not moving even when the technician on the other end paused to say, 

“Welcome back, Princess.” 

She blinked eyes suddenly full of tears. She felt pressure in her throat, heard her voice, and assumed she thanks the technician--but couldn’t say what, exactly, she had said. 

It was only her second time at the Yavin base. Her duties in the Imperial Senate kept her far too close to Coruscant for her liking. It was usually her father--

The last time she had seen the temple looming out of the jungle the way it did, mountainous and ancient, she had been standing next to Bail, nearly a year previous. They had just established the base, and her father was confident it would work as Home One. So far, it had. 

Han was waved to the external landing pad, just outside the hangar doors. Leia waited until they were touching down to retreat to the hatch. Luke was there, waiting for her. He had his father’s lightsaber clipped to his belt--still the belt from the Stormtrooper armor. His clothes were travel stained, and he had dark circles under his eyes. Leia was sure she looked much the same. 

Soon, she would be rid of her white dresses. 

Luke smiled at her with a corner of his mouth; it paled in comparison to his usual smile, she already knew, and her already bruised heart ached for him. (She knew, as bruised as he was, he ached for her, too. Had tried to brush away his own grief for hers “But you lost your planet!” he had protested, and Leia had shaken her head, unable to speak. It was too close. 

There was not yet time for the size of her grief). 

Han didn’t lower the ramp until he and Chewie were both ready, and Leia strode forward impatiently. A cargo shuttle stopped at the base of the ramp and Leia sat--back straight and staring forward with the face she had perfected on the senate floor; no one had been able to tell she wasn’t seeing what was before her then, either. 

Luke sat next to her, closer to the driver, hopping on with an easy grace. Han and Chewie joined a moment later, and then the shuttle pulled away with a tiny jolt. It wasn’t enough to knock Leia free, but her hand gripped the seat anyway. 

The shuttle took them into the main hanger, deep enough that the sun didn’t reach them. They passed the cruisers and the Y-Wings, into the bay of X-Wings. (There were few--far too few--after Scarif. They had lost so many, and the Death Star was coming). Leia took a deep breath, forcing herself back to the present as the shuttle slowed to a stop. 

Leia stepped from the shuttle before it had fully stopped, her face pulling into a grin at a familiar face. 

“You’re safe!” The Commander said, even as he pulled her into a hug. She went willingly, finally starting to feel a pulse of *safesafesafe* even though she knew their time was short. “When we heard about Alderaan, we feared the worst.” 

“We have no time for our sorrows, Commader,” she said, pulling back. She started to walk toward command, and he fell into step. “You must use the information in this R2 unit--”

“Leia!” 

Leia froze, her hand coming to cover her mouth even as her eyes blurred with tears; she had despaired of never hearing that voice again, but there was running across the hanger towards her. 

“Papa!” Leia called out, all of her training and decorum falling away as she flung herself into Bail’s arms. 

Bail--her father--alive!--held her tightly, pressing his face into her hair as he murmured comfort to her. Leia, moved quite beyond words, couldn’t say anything more than “Papa” though her tears that wouldn’t be pushed aside anymore. Bail let her hide her face, covering her shaking shoulders with her arm. 

Behind her, she heard Luke turn to the commander. “The Death Star is on it’s way. The Princess hid the plans in Artoo here.” 

“We’ll analyze them right away!” The Commander said, and Artoo whistled. 

“You’re alive,” Leia finally said. Bail’s arms tightened. 

“I almost wasn’t,” he said. “My ship had a malfunction in the engine. We had to drop out of hyperspace for a few days until we could repair it. By the time we were ready to leave--it was all over, and we came back here.” He pulled back to look at her face. “How did you escape?” 

*I didn’t* Leia almost said. “I was on board the Death Star,” she said, her voice a bit mechanical. “He made me watch.” 

Bail’s dark eyes widened in horror, and he moved to pull her in again. Leia stopped him, however. 

“I was saved by these men,” she said. “Luke Skywalker, Captain Han Solo, and his mate Chewbacca.” Luke waved awkwardly, while Han crossed his arms with a sharp nod. Chewbacca howled a greeting. Bail’s eyebrows were up near his hairline. “General Kenobi was also with us, but he gave his life so that we could escape.” Bail looked at her now. 

“Obi-Wan is dead?” 

“Vader killed him,” Luke said, and Bail stared hard at him, his eyes resting on the lightsaber at Luke’s belt. 

“Papa?” Leia said, and Bail shook his head. 

“I’m sorry. I’ve known Obi-Wan for a long time,” Bail said. “But there’ll be time for that later. Now, we must prepare for what is to come.” Bail smiled at her. “I’m so proud of you, Leia.” 

Leia smiled sadly. “I did what I had to, Papa. It was our only hope.”


	7. Star Wars - Everybody Lives/No Empire AU

Qui-Gon knelt on his meditation mat, facing the horizon. Dawn was still far enough off that the sky was dark, but already there were less stars than at midnight. 

It had long been his custom to greet the dawn, a habit instilled in him by his master though long, long mornings during Qui-Gon’s padawan days. It was a habit he had failed to instil in Xanatos, and it was a habit he had despaired of instilling in Obi-Wan. 

Movement behind him--the quiet padding of bare feet on stone, the whisper of fabric, a stifled yawn. A moment later, Obi-Wan knelt on his mat, next to Qui-Gon’s own the way it had been for the past twenty-five years. Qui-Gon smiled, and turned to face his love. 

Obi-Wan had aged well, though stress had taken it’s toll. The red-fire of his hair had faded to a bright red-blond, and it kept it far shorter than Qui-Gon’s own silvering hair. Obi-Wan’s beard was no less manicured than Qui-Gon’s own, however, and a source of pride. But there was no mistaking those bright blue-green eyes, or the way they lit up when Qui-Gon smiled at him. 

“Good morning, love,” Obi-Wan said quietly, leaning in to kiss Qui-Gon. Qui-Gon hummed into the kiss, a familiar press of lips that spoke of the long endurance of a lasting love, rather than the fires of passion (though, Qui-Gon was fond of those as well, and Obi-Wan was quite skilled at them). 

“Good morning,” Qui-Gon replied. He, too, spoke quietly. They had a full house, for the first time in a long while, and it wouldn’t be right to wake their guests so early. 

It had been at least four years since everyone was able to gather for a lifeday celebration, and it was only right that they gathered here, in the New Temple. (When the war ended in fire and blood, and the Sith was exposed at the heart of the Republic, it had struck fear into the heart of the Order--and many long-awaited changes had been galvanized into action. The first was moving the main temple off of Coruscant to here, Tython, where the Jedi had been for eons past. The second reform was a necessity in the aftermath of war, and the law forbidding attachment, already in tatters, was formally removed). 

In the guest room, Anakin and Padme slept with their children; the twins, Luke and Leia, already five years old, and the new baby, Shmi. The twins had been very excited to see their uncles, and Shmi was at that age were babies babbled and cried just on the cusp of talking. It had been a very loud, eventful evening--even with “Auntie ‘Soka” helping. (Said aunt was currently sleeping on the couch, a blanket pulled haphazardly over her shoulders, her one arm hanging off the couch. 

The revelation of Anakin’s marriage should have been the most shocking news, but Anakin was so terrible with secrets that nobody was really surprised (though, many were taken aback by how quickly the twins were born). No, the greater surprise had been Qui-Gon and Obi-Wan announcing their own engagement. Many had been surprised by their affection (unlike Qui-Gon’s last padawan, Obi-Wan and Qui-Gon were *very* good at secrets) though a few (Mace) were surprised they were not yet wed. 

Their ceremony, the last time their whole family had gathered, was just over three years ago. Obi-Wan had looked resplendent in soft grey silks, the last of his wounds only just healed. Qui-Gon had worn pale green, still limping himself. Most of their party, most of their *guests*, still bore the marks of war (Especially the clones, recently freed of their chips. Cody had stood with Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan had proudly called him brother. Things were not fully settled; the clones that wished settled on Tython with them, as guards and farmers, and whatever they wished, while others settled elsewhere. Still, however, the senate fought over the right of the troops that had fought and bled for them. But that was a worry for another day. They would always have a home here, on Tython, no matter what the Republic at large would say.) 

Obi-Wan’s smile grew, and he leaned in deepening the kiss for a long, wicked moment. Qui-Gon moaned softly into the kiss. 

But not, unfortunately, softly enough. From the couch Ahsoka groaned. “Come on, Masters. Please.” 

Obi-Wan chuckled and pulled back. “Oh you’re awake! Wonderful. You can join us for meditation, then!” 

There was silence from the couch, and then a loud snore, obviously fake. 

Qui-Gon chuckled, and turned back to face the dawn. He reached out, and took his husband’s hand in his own, ready to face the new day.


	8. Star Wars - Breha Lives AU - Gen

Ahsoka sat in the officer’s mess, staring into a mug of something that might have been kaff at one point, but had been reheated so many times that it resembled something more akin to sludge. She thought she’d be used to this by now--years in the military, and then living rough as a Rebel in spacer bars and smugglers dens--but apparently one never did truly get used to terrible kaff. 

Oh well. The Force was with her. Down the hatch. 

Tilting her head back, Ahsoka drank, and grimaced. There was no helping the taste, but in a few moments, the tingle of the stimulant began to run through her and she felt some of the tension in her shoulders ease. 

“You’re up late.” 

Ahsoka startled, standing from the table. Behind her stood Breha Organa, dressed simply in a tunic and trousers with a long blue vest that came to her knees. Her hair was braided up high on her head, reminding Ahsoka sharply of Padme--but Breha’s elaborate hairstyle was done with braids and ribbons, not the headpieces that Padme favored. 

“Ma’am,” Ahsoka said, but Breha waved her off. 

“How long have we known each other, my dear,” she said. “I don’t want to hear formality from you unless I’m forced to use your other name.” 

Fulcrum. The piece on which everything hinged. It was a terrible pun, but Breha had never been shy with her praise for the work Ahsoka had done to help the Rebellion. 

“I’ve got a mission for you, if you want it,” Breha said. 

“What’s the mission?” Ahsoka asked, sitting back down when Breha waved at the seat, sitting herself. 

“Personal recruitment and retrieval,” Breha said. “I know it’s not your usual assignment,” she said, holding up a hand. “But I have reason to believe that your target would be more likely to listen to you.” She sighed. “Force knows, he’s ignoring my husband,” she muttered. 

Ahsoka nodded, slowly. “My resources?” 

“Yourself, I’m afraid,” Breha said. “I would have said to bring Rex with you, but I don’t want to run the risk of spooking him.” 

A Jedi, then. Or former Jedi. Ahsoka frowned. 

 

“I’m not a Jedi anymore,” she said, and Breha leveled her with a look that made Ahsoka lower her eyes. 

“I know that, dear,” Breha said. “Neither is he, not truly. But we need him. And I think he needs us.” She sighed. “He’s been caretaker of an important person. It’s time to bring him in. It is well past time for them to meet.” 

Ahsoka frowned, but didn’t press. If Breha could speak plainly, she would have. “Where am I going,” she asked instead. 

Breha smiled. “Tatooine, my dear,” she said, and stood. “And when you see dear General Kenobi, you have my permission to smack him.” Breha nodded at Ahsoka. “The details will be waiting you in your shuttle,” she said, politely ignoring the shell-shocked look on Ahsoka’s face as she turned and left the commissary. 

“Obi-Wan,” Ahsoka whispered. She had no idea he was still alive, and found herself fighting back tears. 

She didn’t know who Obi-Wan was protecting, but one thing was for sure; when she saw him, she very well may take Breha up on her offer.


	9. Star Wars - Song + Ship = fic meme - Stitches by Shawn Mendez - ObiQui

_“Just like a moth drawn to a flame_  
Oh, you lured me in, I couldn't sense the pain  
Your bitter heart cold to the touch  
Now I'm gonna reap what I sow  
I'm left seeing red on my own” 

Obi-Wan did not remember much about his final days on Naboo. (Yellow eyes in a nightmare face, the Dark seeking, clawing for him with a putrid reek). 

The mind-healers said that was to be expected; bonds are meant to be dissolved, not broken, and it was a blessing in disguise that Qui-Gon had died as fast as he had. Lingering deaths only drew out the damage. (Fingers, cold and trembling, brushing against his cheek. A rush of _affection, regret, love_ pouring into him over their bond, already cracked like a broken vase.) 

Obi-Wan knew the important information. The plan had worked, and the Queen was safe. Naboo was free. (A somber face heavily painted with makeup, far too young for eyes that old, flickering in the firelight). 

Obi-Wan had been attacked by a Sith. (Red, filling his vision as he paced--) 

Obi-Wan had defeated the Sith. (Rage, filling him like a void and adding strength to his arms, speed to his movements. The slight drag of the blade through flesh. Those yellow eyes, fearful as they fell). 

Obi-Wan had faced his trials, and passed. (A braid, not nearly as long as it should have been tucked into cold hands that could not grip back). 

Obi-Wan had insisted on training the boy. (Beloved voice, broken, nearly stolen by pain, and a whispered plea. Obi Wan’s own voice, choked with tears: yes, yes, yes). 

He had been in over his head; he knew that now, but the memory of that darkness, that red fire that had filled him, spurred him on. Obi-Wan would not fall, and he would make sure Anakin didn’t fall with him. 

Out of love for Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan would love Anakin. 

(Obligation, but who was ever obligated to love you?) 

_(soft fingers, soft looks, soft touches, soft words. Long hair falling free, eyes sparkling with joy, skin flushed pink and lovely, and Obi-Wan let himself fall)._

Yoda’s padawan had fallen to the dark, convinced the order had lost its way. Dooku’s padawan had fallen to the dark’s blade, convinced one was not worth the same as many. _Anakin_ had fallen, convinced power could keep love alive-- 

(If only he had asked, Obi-Wan could have told him that love could long outlast death). 

Yet, here Obi-Wan stood, ash in his eyes, his lungs, his mouth. His throat was raw. 

Alive. 

Still standing. 

(Still loving).

Still breaking.

(Obi-Wan had always failed with what was truly important).


	10. NSFW - Star Wars - Song+Ship = Fic - "Follow Through" by the Yellow Dress - LukeWedge

__

_“And so we go on waiting waiting waiting_  
_because there’s nothing else to do_  
_and if live of different planets_  
_well there might be different moons_  
_and maybe that could be enough for something wonderful like you_  
_but now i’m working hard, working hard on follow through”_

 

Luke kissed Wedge first, in the aftermath of _survival,_ riding high on the fact that he’s _alive, alive, alive_. 

(There’d be time for the dead tomorrow, time to mourn their loss, and celebrate their lives, and honor their sacrifice). 

They’re both drunk, and it’s sloppy as hell, but it felt so good to feel the warmth of him--Luke felt like he’s been cold for _years_ at this point, even though his latest sunburn was still peeling off his shoulders, but it’s not that kind of chill--that Luke didn’t stop when Wedge walked them back until Luke’s back hit the wall. They were mostly out of sight, hidden behind a haphazard stack of crates, but everyone’s as drunk as they were and nobody said anything when sloppy kisses became sloppy fondling. Luke hit his head against the wall when he came, his flightsuit hanging off one shoulder and Wedge’s hand down his pants. 

He would have been embarrassed, but honestly this wasn’t the worst, or the most public, place in Luke’s history, and his pulse was still singing that he was alive, so he didn’t think twice before sinking to his knees and tugging Wedge’s suit open, grabbing his cock and sucking his fast and dirty until Wedge game over his face and neck. 

Luke still wasn’t embarrassed the next morning, hungover and with jizz crusting in his hair, when Wedge mentioned that, maybe, possibly, that hadn’t been quite as inconspicuous as they thought, and most of the pilots, if not half the base, had seen Luke on his knees. 

Smiling, Luke said, “Great! No one will think it strange when you buy me caff, then,” and laughed at Wedge’s startled look. 

Wedge pulled it together enough to say, “Caff is free in the mess.” 

“Even better,” Luke said, hooking his arm around Wedge’s and pulling him along. 

Getting together, it seemed, was the easy part. 

Everything from that day on was a frantic scramble to pack up and bug out, and Luke found himself given a rank, Lieutenant, and drawn into planning meetings and strategic briefings, as, between his actions at the Battle of Yavin and the sheer amount of pilots lost in the race to destroy the Death star, he found himself in a position of senior rank. (Not at the top, thank the gods; Luke knew he was a capable pilot, but he wasn’t a moon-blessed _General_.)

The only bright spot was that Wedge was with him every step of the way, from Red two and Red five to Rogue two and Rogue Leader--when Luke went from Lieutenant to Commander--when they moved the mobile fleet to Hoth, and Luke decided that he was never going to feel warm again, even when they managed to climb under enough blankets and Wedge was balls-deep, body-hot around and in him--Luke still felt that chill. 

But they were _together_ \--and then they weren’t. 

Luke went on patrol, and then woke up in a wompa’s cave only to find himself in a bacta tank. He felt like he spun around and went from the tank to his A-Wing to his X-Wing, and then he was on his way to Dagobah and his heart _ached_ because Wedge would get to Rendezvous, and Luke--

Luke wouldn’t be there. Luke might not be there for _months_ , but he couldn’t tell Wedge. Wedge had to be able to say he _didn’t know_ \--

(Luke thought of him often, every night, every day. His shin was purple from where Master Yoda tried to draw his attention back to the moment, to the present--but always, Luke looked for the moon, as lovers do, and wondered if Wedge was looking for his, as well.) 

(He was, but it would be years before Luke knew that for sure). 

Luke trained, and wanted, and waited--and it became easier, for a while, but then he saw Leia and Han and he was off, racing towards danger, and the dark shadow that had gripped his heart tightly on Tatooine (shadows were necessary on Tatooine, shadows could save your _life_ ) whispered that he hadn’t left for Wedge, who he loved--

Luke faced Vader. Luke lost his hand. Luke gained some knowledge he didn’t want, and some wisdom he sorely needed. 

Wedge was on a mission when the Millennium Falcon reached Home One. Luke looked out towards the bright center of the Galaxy, putting his arm around the princess who had become like his sister, and wondered if Wedge was looking at the moon. 

Luke returned to Tatooine, and it was just as hot and terrible as he remembered, but he was warm until he wasn’t. Then Jabba was dead and Han wasn’t dead, but _Yoda_ was dead and Ben had been dead for years and still managed to make Luke feel like a kid. 

Luke returned to the rebellion in time to hear Han ask, backwardly because _Han_ , for volunteers, and it was as good an entrance as any. Leia sprang up to give him a hug, and Han was on her heels, but Luke spent the briefing looking across the room at Wedge, who stared back across the space between them. 

(“I’m sorry,” Luke said later in the supply closet off the conference room, his words muffled between frantic kisses. Wedge’s pants opened for him, and he grasped Wedge’s cock. “I’m so sorry, I should have told you--”

“Yes,” Wedge said, thrusting his hips. His own fingers fumbling at Luke’s belt, the weight of his lightsaber falling away to clang against the floor. “You should have.” He pulled Luke’s pants open, and Luke pulled them together, gripping them both in his gloved hand as his flesh hand cupped the back of Wedge’s head.

“Don’t you leave again, Skywalker,” Wedge gasped against Luke’s mouth. “Don’t you dare.”) 

While still in hyperspace, Luke remembered that Endor was a moon, and let himself hope (He always had the best luck on moons), but then they reentered real space, and his hope fell away. 

There would be no luck while the Death Star loomed. 

Later, in the Emperor’s throne room, Luke watched the battle unfold, his eyes catching on one flare of brilliance, and wished that he could have survived this. 

They had been so close. 

(It was so close, but the fires spit him out again, with the body of his Father behind him and the Emperor dead and gone. Perhaps now. Perhaps...)

Wedge was there, in the Ewok village, when Luke finally, finally returned, still smelling of smoke and burnt plastisteel. His eyes felt gritty, and stuck when he blinked, but his heart felt lighter than it had. He saw Ben and Yoda and his Father smiling at him and his sister, and went, at last, to Wedge. 

Luke kissed, in the aftermath of _survival,_ riding high on the fact that they were _alive, alive, alive_. They weren’t drunk--they didn’t waste the time--just slipped off into the shadows to celebrate. 

(“I promise,” Luke said into Wedge’s mouth. “I promise,” he said into his neck. “I promise,” he said into Wedge’s hip. “Wherever I go, whatever moon is in the sky, I will look and and see you, and make my way back to you.” 

“You better,” Wedge said later, eyes wet with tears and bright with joy, his mouth kiss-bitten red. “You fucking well better.”)


	11. The Hobbit - Song+Ship=Fic - The Fires I Started by Unwoman - Bagginshield

_I will end here listening_   
_To the sound of my own breathing_   
_To my many accomplishments_   
_Though you never heard what I meant_

_I will leave your memory_   
_To those who see you clearly_   
_I will not carve you into song_   
_I tell everyone's story wrong”_

 

Bilbo had been back in the Shire for three years, six months, eleven days, and a score of hours when he woke to a rain that came down in buckets. 

“Goodness me,” he muttered to himself, wrapping his patchwork dressing gown around his sleep shift as he peered out the window. Fall, it seemed, had arrived and the rain was not helping the chill of the morning. “It’s raining to wake the Rock Giants.” 

And Bilbo paused. “Rock Giants,” he said, remembering the cold of the slick stone beneath his feet, the crash of thunder, and the way the lightning had lit the world bright as day for only a moment. He shivered, and went to put on tea.   
Bustling about his kitchen, Bilbo set the kettle to boil and primed the pot with a darling blend that he had received as a parting gift from Lord Elrond, who had quite honored Bilbo by indulging him in a lengthy discussion about the merits of bergamot vs cinnamon in a black tea. It was the best tea Bilbo owned, and one he was reluctant to put out for visitors, save for his darling cousin Primula Brandybuck, who at nineteen, was already promising to be a very interesting relation. (Primula, you see, was often to be seen with Drogo Baggins. The dears were beginning to court, you see, and Bilbo was just enough of a romantic to help them along, so to speak. (It didn’t hurt that they had nothing to do with that dreadful auction, and treated him no differently for all the rumors of gold that were whispered around town. There _was_ , in fact, a chest of gold, that had been buried in the troll hoard, but Bilbo had put that aside for a rainy day. 

Bilbo had set out a pair of the scones he had made the night before, his pad of butter, the cream, and a little pot of honey (also a gift, from Beorn, this time. It was simply the best honey in the world), by the time the kettle whistled, and Bilbo set his tea to steeping. 

He had only just sat down, ready to eat, when there was a knocking at the door. 

Bilbo froze--had it been the wind? If it was company, they would knock again, but it was unlikely. No one would be out and about in this weather. 

(Unless they had already traveled a long way without shelter, and this rain was not the worst they had faced, for even the hardest of Shire rains were nothing compared to rains on the mountain). 

“Coming,” Bilbo called out, but something had stolen his voice and it came out in less than a whisper. 

The knock came again, and Bilbo cried out, “Coming!” and ran to the door. He threw it open--

And there was nobody there, just a bit of branch that had snapped from his tree and was blowing in the winds. Bilbo knew that he should close the door, that his papers and books were getting all sort of blown about in the winds, that his front entryway was getting soaking wet from the driving rain--that he, himself, would soon be soaked--

But Bilbo couldn’t look away from where the grey stormclouds in the sky met the black shadows of the woods away on the horizon. That way lay Rivendell, and the mountains, and the dark Forest, and at last--Erebor. Bilbo’s heart ached, and he was filled with the sudden urge to step from his door, dressed only in his gown, and go running back, over hill and under tree, through lands where never light has shone, by silver streams that run down to the sea, to find, at last--

Bilbo stepped back. He closed the door. He leaned against it, and, pressing his hand to his mouth, he cried until his tears ran dry. 

***

Seven years, eight months, and four days after Bilbo returned from the dead, Bilbo was walking in the market, looking at the wares. Hobbit made crafts were good, sturdy things, with pleasant, flowering designs, nothing at all like dwarven--

Bilbo put down the box he was holding, and went home. 

***

Twenty-Seven years, two months, and five days since Bilbo returned home, he finally opened the Troll chest, as a wedding gift to Primula and Drogo. 

Twenty-Seven years, three months, and twelve days since Bilbo fought Lobelia for his own teaspoons, Frodo Baggins was born. 

Thirty-Nine years and eight months even after Bilbo returned, at last, heart-sick and weary, he brought home Frodo Baggins, pale and sad and a shadow of his former self. 

Bilbo showed Frodo to his room, and put the kettle on. 

***

Forty years to the day after Bilbo had stormed down Bagshot Row to declare himself officially _not_ dead, Bilbo opened his study door. He had a cup of the tea blend Glorfindel preferred, acquired on his last visit to Rivendell, and three of the poppyseed cookies he had made earlier that day, to fortify him to answer the small pile of letters that had piled up. 

But, when he went to fill his pen, he found the top had been left off his ink-pot, and the little that had been left at the bottom had turned into a sticky, gummy mess. Bilbo sighed--this ink never truly came back from that. He sighed. “Frodo,” he muttered, shaking his head. His nephew was finally starting to come out of his shell, and it was good to see, but Frodo was more of a 

He did, however, have more ink powders somewhere, if he could only...Bilbo stood, hand on his hips as he looked around, trying to remember where he had put those powders. He started shifting books and stacks of papers, looking for that box that he just _knew_ \--

A leather book fell from where it had shifted, over the years, spilling scraps of scribbled writing, stained with grass and dirt and mud and what else, and Bilbo froze--a single piece of paper fluttered onto his feet; a drawing of himself as a younger hobbit, a gift from young Ori. With shaking hands, he lifted the drawing, and had to blink to see. 

Ori had drawn the picture in Erebor, after everything. Bilbo wasn’t entirely sure why Ori had drawn him smiling, or how he could--Bilbo did not think he truly smiled for weeks after...

Taking a deep breath, Bilbo placed the picture on his desk, and bent to gather the loose pieces of paper. He would stop, from time to time, and read a sentence, a passage, and found himself thinking fondly of what had been the most painful and difficult year of his life. 

He thought about Beorn, and being called a little bunny. He thought of his first meeting with Lord Elrond, and how Bilbo had been quite sure he had insulted Elrond until he had been told he would always be welcome. He remembered an unexpected party that had cleaned out his larders, and the singing that had made his heart swell and race. 

He remembered Dori’s fussing over Ori and Nori, who had taken something from every place they paused. He remembered Gloin’s bluster and Oin’s bad hearing. He remembered Bofur’s laugh, and Bombur’s smile, and Bifur’s flowers. He remembered Balin’s twinkle, and Dwalin’s sweet tooth. 

He remembered Fili and Kili and their love of song and dance. 

He remembered Thorin, and for the first time in years, remembered more joy than pain. 

He remembered Thorin’s poor sense of direction, the strength of his singing and the clarity of his harp. He remembered the way his words could move you, and the way he wielded his sword with deadly grace. He remembered the way he laughed, hidden, like a child sneaking a sweet they weren’t supposed to have. 

Bilbo placed his notes on his desk, and stood, wish his hands on the leather cover, thinking perhaps it was time to begin thinking about writing his memoirs. 

Yes...yes, he would call it There and Back Again: A Hobbit’s Holiday. It would make for a rather good children’s story, he should think, if he left out the harder, more emotionally messy bits. Nobody in Hobbiton ever liked to read the harder bits, anyway (Deep down, Bilbo thought of those bits as _his_ , and perhaps Bilbo had spent too long around dragon gold as it was, because he was not inclined to share them. Not with Frodo, not with anyone). 

Now, if only he could find that ink.


	12. NSFW - Star Wars - Song+Ship=Fic - "Enormous Penis" by Da Vinci's Notebook - Qui Gon/himself

_“If you ever get so low that you don't know_  
_which way to go_  
_Come on and take a walk in my shoes_  
_Never worry about a thing_  
_Got the world on a string_  
_'Cause I've got the cure for all of my_  
_blues (all of his blues)_

_I take a look at my enormous penis_  
_And my troubles start a-meltin' away_  
_I take a look at my enormous penis_  
_And the happy times are coming to stay”_

 

Qui-Gon entered his quarters and stopped, letting the door close behind him. The rooms were as he had left them, nearly three months previous; it was his luck that the cleaning staff had kept watering his plants, as Qui-Gon had only made arrangements for three weeks--the original length of their mission. 

It had been particularly grueling; what should have been a simple negotiation over a cease of hostilities had turned rather quickly into a murder investigation and false arrest which lead, ultimately, to spending the next two and a half months living rough in the planet’s swampy wilds. Poor Obi-Wan had gotten sick as well, a low grade fever and wet cough that, while not life-threatening, had lingered and made his padawan all the more miserable when they were unable to stay clean and dry. 

Needless to say, they were both quite relieved when help had arrived. Obi-Wan had ended up sleeping for most of their return voyage, and while Qui-Gon certainly hadn’t minded, it did mean that he had gotten quite little sleep himself. Not to mention that the ship only had sonic freshers and, while Qui-Gon knew he was clean, he certainly did not _feel_ clean. 

No, he felt rather like what he had scraped off of his boot after sinking to his knees in a bog. He was tired, and ached from the continued chill of space. He itched between his toes and behind his knees, in places where he had little chance of staying dry. Per protocol, he had gone immediately to the healers, so he had his supply of anti-itch cream, but the application that the healer had applied was already wearing off. 

Slowly, Qui-Gon shrugged his shoulders, letting his cloak fall backwards onto the ground. It landed with a heavy fwump on the carpeting, and Qui-Gon knew it was a good stone heavier than it should be from the caked on mud and grime. If Obi-Wan had been there, Qui-Gon would have been on the receiving end of a nasty glare and disapproving sniff--for all his inability to keep his own room organized, Obi-Wan was quite persnickety when it came to cleanliness.

But Qui-Gon could not be arsed, he was far too weary, and Obi-Wan would be spending the next day or so in the healer’s ward as he slept off the last of his cold. Healer Che had not liked the sound of Obi-Wan’s cough, and had been concerned that the damp had caused his simple cold to develop into a more serious walking pneumonia. It said something about how Obi-Wan felt that he hadn’t argued, simply changed into the patient’s scrubs and climbed into the bed. He had fallen asleep before Healer Che had inserted his IV, and for the first time in their trip, his presence in the Force was calm and strong. 

Qui-Gon could still feel him though their link, a warm weight that pressed gently against the back of his mind; Obi-Wan wouldn’t be walking for hours, not with the sedative in the IV, but Qui-Gon could still monitor him. It was a comfort to reach out and feel him there, still strong. 

It was almost as much of a comfort when Qui-Gon remembered that he had an _actual water shower_ in his quarters, and he could _finally_ feel clean. That was enough to get him moving, stripping his tunics as he went. He was sore all over, and his movements were stiff, but he still managed to be naked by the time he made it to the ‘fresher. 

The hot water was absolute bliss, just this side of scalding, scouring away the lingering muck and recycled transport air. He arched his back, lifting his arms to stretch before he tilted his head back, letting the spray wet his hair. _Force_ , it even felt good on his scalp, prickling all over as the warmth finally started to seep in. Slowly, he could feel his tension ease, and he picked up the soap, bringing it to a rich lather with a washing cloth before methodically washing every inch of skin. 

He started with his shoulders and neck, rolling his head to let the soft scrub of the cloth do it’s work. He brought the cloth down, over his chest and pectorals. The scrub brushed quickly over his nipples, and he felt himself relax even further as it sparked a brief flash of pleasure--more like a candle flame than a bonfire, pleasant but not urgent. 

Qui-Gon continued to wash, dragging the cloth across his stomach and abdomen, down each arm and over his hips. He ran the cloth down each leg, scrubbing at his toes even as they flexed against the sensation that wasn’t quite a tickle. 

As he stood up, he brought the cloth back up, re-lathering with the soap, before rubbing it over the back of his shoulders, letting one end fall down so he could grab it. Arching his back, he slid the cloth back and forth, not only cleaning, but scratching a long-standing itch that had taken up residence between his shoulderblades for the past month. He shuddered with the relief of it, before pulling the cloth down, running it over the small of his back and down over the round swell of his ass. 

Finally, he brought the cloth forward and ran it over his cock, not quite surprised to find himself beginning to grow hard. The shower felt _good_ in a rather visceral way, and it only felt better when he reached back with the cloth to clean behind his sack and over the tight ring of his opening, shuddering and--oh. Well. It _had_ been some time since he’d seen to his needs hasn’t it--there was hardly time for it, on the run, and he made a habit to not indulge while in tight quarters with his padawan. (Obi-Wan, he knew, tried to maintain the same courtesy when he could, but it was harder on a teenager). Even before their mission, Qui-Gon had done some time without release. 

Qui-Gon forced himself to rinse thoroughly clean before he put his washing cloth down and ran his hand down his stomach to palm his cock. 

_Force_ that felt good, and his cock filled quickly enough to make Qui-Gon a bit dizzy. Perhaps the shower was not the best place for this. 

Turning off the water, Qui-Gon toweled dry as quickly as he could while still being thorough--after the last few months, he didn’t want to feel _damp_ for a while--and squeezed as much moisture from his hair as he could before walking quickly into his bedroom. 

Qui-Gon’s bedroom was an open, airy space, with a large window and opened to the city skyline, a brother to balcony door off the living space. It meant, however, that the setting sunlight turned his bedroom from white light to deep red-gold, and now was no exception. As worked up as Qui-Gon felt, he doubted he would have noticed had he not caught sight of himself in the long mirror across from the bed. 

His skin was flushed pink from the heat, and his hair tumbled about his head, but what caught his attention was the large cock jutting from the dark thatch of hair at his groin. 

It wasn’t that Qui-Gon was unaware of his body--he was a large man, and his privates had grown in proportion--but he had heard enough innuendo in his life, and experienced enough as well, to know that his size was both desired and envied. 

(He remembered, if fact, the look of dazed awe on his last lover’s face when he had seen Qui-Gon fully exposed and fully aroused for the first time. There had been a shadow of fear, but it was drowned out by a fierce determination. Qui-Gon closed his eyes for the memory of his hot mouth, the tightness of being buried deep inside him as his lover was incoherent with lust, and felt his cock twitch as it hardened even further.) 

Wasting no more time, Qui-Gon climbed onto his bed, settling back against the pillows. From here, he could just see himself in the mirror on the wall if he wanted, but he closed his eyes and let his hand drift between his legs, gently stroking himself to full hardness. 

It didn’t take long for Qui-Gon to start to move his hips in time with his strokes, his knees splaying wide as he rolled his hips. A moaned escaped, low and breathy, and Qui-Gon opened his eyes to see himself--skin flushed from more than heat, the sun glinting off his skin, his hand working quickly, obviously, over the swollen, red length of him, already glistening at the tip. He swiped his thumb through the fluid there, making him his even as he spread it down his length. It eased the friction just enough that his breath hitched. 

Flinging out with a careless hand, Qui-Gon called his little bottle of bedside oil to him, beyond caring about “frivolous uses of the Force.” He was able to still his hand just long enough to drizzle the oil over the tip of his cock, letting it spill and flow down the sides, before he was stroking himself in earned, fucking up into the tight right of his hand, his head falling back against the pillows as he arched and writhed. 

_Fuck,_ it felt good--it had been too long, he had waited too long. He wasn’t going to last. He wasn’t--

Qui-Gon game with a groan as his cock pulsed thick streams over his chest, some reaching as far as his neck, and he continued to rock his hips, pushing his cock though his fist as he worked though the last fading shudders of release. 

With a deep sigh, Qui-Gon slumped back against the pillows, his eyes cracking open to see himself, splayed open and looking thoroughly debauched. It was enough to make his skin tingle, and his cock ache warmly. It wouldn’t take long, he knew, before he could get hard again--and he would be getting hard again. 

He reached for a tissue to clean himself off, wiping clumsily at the thick strands. Tossing the tissue into the trash with a small nudge from the Force, he rolled over to reach into his bedside and pull a small, curved toy from the drawer. He pressed the small indentation and felt the toy buzz pleasantly, and felt his cock twitch. Yes--it had been far too long. 

Luckily, he had all night.


	13. NSFW - Star Wars - Song+Ship=Fic - "Bring Night" by Sia - Padme/Anakin

“Bring night, bring the night on  
Bring me the moon and stars and send away the sun, yeah  
Bring night, bring the night on  
Or maybe if I'm lucky I'll end up in your arms

Chase your shadow till the sun goes down  
Chase your shadow till the sun goes down  
Ooh, ooh, whoa, ohh, ooh, ooh, whoa, ohh”

Anakin/Padme, secret relationship

When she was a girl, Padmé had never been one to picture her future in a romantic sense--she knew what she wanted to do with her life, the way she wanted to serve her people and her planet--but that had never included _marraige_. 

(Yet, when she had been thirteen and training with her handmaidens, the women who would grow to become her greatest friends, they had nights when they would giggle over the romance holos--Sabé would tease Eirtaé about her latest celebrity crush, and Cordé and Dormé would hold hands where they thought no one could see--and Padmé would watch the holos and knew that it would take someone very special to make her want to marry before she was done with her career.)

Anakin, when he was a boy, had known that he would be married, the same way he knew when Sebulba was going to hit him--not that he was always able to avoid it, but he always knew it was coming--or what part of a machine was actually broken. It simply was: one day, Anakin Skywalker would be married--and because little Ani was a slave, he knew that his marriage would be a slave’s marriage, secret but no less sacred. 

When Anakin saw Padmé, he knew he had seen his future, his angel--but not yet. 

(Anakin was right, of course. He would be married, and it would be sacred, and while he was no longer a slave, it was still a secret. It didn’t bother him, except when it did, the same way it didn’t bother Padmé, except when it did. However, it seemed to never bother them at the same time, which Anakin was a little thankful for--he wasn’t sure what they would do if they were ever sick of hiding at the same time.) 

In some ways, it was almost easier when Anakin was deployed to the Rim--if he wasn’t there, Padmé could distract herself, could lose herself in the work for days. When Anakin was on planet, however, it was harder, much harder, to hide when he was _so close_. 

Anakin fought and lived for the moments he could return home, to Coruscant, to escape the Temple and spend the night with Padmé, when the doors closed out the world and it was just them.

Anakin’s least favorite part of being back on Coruscant was the political socializing he and Obi-Wan were always roped into--apparently it was good for the war effort that the Hero with No Fear and The Negotiator and High General of the GAR to mingle with the senators who have supported them. (It helped that Anakin knew Obi-Wan hated these events _more_ than Anakin did, he just hid it better. And it wasn’t all bad for Ani--not when Padmé was there. 

Arriving with Obi-Wan, Anakin paused for a moment on the outskirts of the party, his eyes scanning the room even as he reached out to find his wife’s brilliant presence. 

There--with senators Organa and Mothma. The three of them had become fast friends, lately, and Anakin was glad of it--they were all staunch supporters, and it was good that Padmé had friends who would support her. (It helped that Bail was so devoted to his wife, and that while Mon’s preferences ran towards women, they also ran towards Eirtaé). 

“Remember,” Obi-Wan muttered to him out of the side of his mouth, his practiced political smile firmly in place. “Say hello to a few others before you stick to Senator Amidala’s side, hmm? You do actually want to avoid the look of favoritism.” 

_But Padmé_ is _my favorite,_ he didn’t say. Instead he twitched an eyebrow, raising a hand to touch lightly at the middle of his chest. “Obi-Wan, how could you even think it?” 

“Because I’ve known you since you were _nine_ , Anakin.” 

“Then you know I would do nothing that would make things hard for Senator Amidala.” 

Obi-Wan looked at him then, side-eyed, as if he’d heard the irony and was impressed despite himself, but Anakin was just projecting. There was no way Obi-Wan could know. 

Still, Anakin did as asked, and slowly made his way around the room, working ever closer to his angel. He knew the minute she spotted him, because her brightness flared briefly, and Anakin struggled not to grin outright. Too many of the senators present would mistake it for an open threat. 

Finally, Anakin turned and was face-to-face with Padmé. “Senator,” he said, bowing. 

“Ser Jedi,” Padmé said with a small curtsey. All of it was very proper, the slightly less than formal address of two who had worked together in the past and parted ways on friendly terms--but when Padmé looked up and met his eyes--hers _burned_ and Anakin felt his mouth go dry, and he licked his lips. 

Padmé’s eyes followed the motion of his tongue. “Ser Jedi,” she said, not looking away from his mouth. Anakin’s skin began to prickle as his heart started to quicken. “I find myself quite parched, would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the refreshments?” 

“Gladly, Senator,” Anakin said, aware that his voice had dropped down, and saw Padmé shiver. 

Oh, he had been away for _too_ long. 

Often, Anakin had pictured coming home--Padmé would be waiting for him, her handmaidens dismissed for the night. She would be dressed in a simple shift of shimmering blue, her hair falling in loose ringlets around her shoulders (Anakin loved her hair, the way it smelled like spring flowers, the silken weight of it in his hands. He had grown quite good at un-doing her complex styles, pulling pins without pulling hair, and helping her repair what had fallen loose when the only time they had together was a quick fifteen-minutes in her office, or on her ship). She would turn when the door opened, her smile blinding as she ran to him, and he would pull her into his arms. 

Anakin had run through the scenario so many times, it was as if he was reliving a memory. Instead, however, he had found himself here--but it seemed that would do little to stifle their reunion. 

Walking quickly enough to avoid conversation, but not so quickly as to draw attention, Padmé led Anakin past the drinks table and into the hallway that lead to the ‘freshers. 

He was a little surprised--he hadn’t expected her to bring him there, but honestly Anakin cared little for location as long as he could get his hands on her quickly. He was already hard enough that walking was proving difficult, and he ached for her. 

But Padmé did not bring Anakin into one of the stalls. Instead, she stopped walking forward, and pulled him sharply to the right into what appeared to be an unused closet of some kind. It was dark, save for the sparkling lights on her dress, that looked like so many stars in the night sky. 

“Padmé, what--?” 

“Shh!” Padmé hissed, pressing close, and Anakin’s hands went to her waist automatically. “We’re in a blind spot for the cameras, so they can’t see us, but they can still hear us. We’ll have to be quiet.” She reached up, cupping his cheek with her hand. “We can be quiet, right?” 

Anakin had serious doubts about that, but he nodded anyway. If the Jedi were right, he was the Chosen One, after all, and that meant he could keep quiet if he had to. 

Padmé grinned and pressed up on her tip-toes until Anakin bent to kiss her, one hand leaving her waist to cup the back of her neck, and he wished that her hair wasn’t up in one of her elaborate styles so he could sink his hands in the way he liked, and tug gently the way she liked, but it was so he didn’t--he simply pulled her to himself more tightly with the hand still on her waist. 

Humming into his mouth, Padmé moved, rubbing herself against him, and dropped a hand to cup at his groin, pressing against his cock, and he hissed, grabbing her waist tightly and pulling her to him. She went easily, wrapping her leg around his own and rocking her hips along his thigh. 

“I’ve missed you,” he whispered against her lips. “I’ve dreamed of nothing but you since I went away.” 

“Good dream, I hope,” she breathed, head rolling back with a happy sigh as Anakin licked and nibbled his way down her neck, too gently to leave a mark, (He wanted to mark her, to leave love bites and bruises to show that she was _his_ , and to be marked by her in return.) 

“The best,” he muttered into her collarbone, and then dropped to one knee. He raised his hands, running them up her stomach and over her breasts, his thumbs rubbing at there her nipples would be through the silk of her dress, and she gasped quietly. 

Anakin closed his eyes, biting his lip; he loved the sounds she made, the way she felt under his hands, the scent--the taste of her. 

Her dress tonight was far more sleek that he had seen her wear in the past--no voluminous skirts with multiple hidden layers--though the skirt was still full length. Still--he could work with this. 

He looked up at her, grinning, and lifted the front of her skirts, diving underneath. 

“Ani!” She hissed, but she didn’t sound put out in the least--and Anakin thought he knew why. He’d seen his wife dress too many times, had _un_ dressed her too many times, to not notice that there was something missing. 

He leaned back, pulling the skirts back to look up at his wife. “You’re not wearing underwear,” he whispered. Padmé didn’t answer, but her smile was just a bit too wicked to be innocent. “Oh, I love you,” he whispered, fervent, and ducked back under. 

Smoothing his hands up the sides of her thighs, he gently turned her so her back was pressed against the wall and then encouraged her to raise her leg, hooking her one knee over his shoulder, exposing herself to him fully. 

Oh, the smell of her was stronger here, and he breathed of it deeply as he pressed gentle kisses to the soft skin just above the dark patch of hair. He felt a gentle pressure on the top of his head, her hand over her skirts, and breathed out a stream of warm air over her folds. 

She hissed, her leg pressing, trying to pull him in, and he went easily, licking a long, firm stipe up her center. 

Her gasp cut off, muffled, and Anakin knew she had covered her mouth with her hand--good; he wasn’t the only one unsure if they could be as quiet as they needed to be. 

It was enough of a reminder that they had little time, and Anakin would be damned if he wasn’t going to give his wife the greeting she deserved, and bent down in earnest. 

Using the fingers of his gloved hand, he gently spread her folds, and kissed her there, open-mouthed sucking kisses to her clit, swirling and flicking his tongue, and deeper kisses, thrusting his tongue inside of her, licking her loose. HIs mouth and chin were quickly soaked with her, and he briefly regretted not growing a beard, so the scent of her could linger longer than on his skin alone. 

Maybe he would grow one, after the war. 

Bringing his flesh hand up, he circled his thumb gently over her clit as he fucked her with his tongue, and her thighs began to tremble. 

“Ani,” she whispered. “Stop teasing!” 

Anakin chuckled, face still pressed to her, and she gasped. He pulled away with a final lick, running his fingers down to circle around her entrance, before slipping in a finger. It went easily, she was so wet, and she sighed deeply above him. He thrust gently, not moving very much at all, curling his finger forward until he heard her strangled moan. Pulling back, he pushed back in with two, and then with three fingers, curling them inside of her to hit that spot. The hand on his head tightened, and he leaned in, sucking at her clit as he thrust his hand, and Padmé came above him and around him, squeezing around his fingers and shuddering. 

Still, Anakin didn’t stop thrusting, though he slowed to ease her through her climax. When her trembling stopped and her breathing began to even out, he thrust in deep, sending out a small tendril of the force to rub her breasts and pinch at her swollen nipples, where he couldn’t reach, and licked around his fingers and across her clit until she came a second time. 

“Ani,” she fairly grit out through clenched teeth, and Anakin grinned, pulling back at last with a final, soft kiss to her now red and swollen sex. 

The air in the closet was suddenly cool after the hot, closeness of her skirts, and Padmé pulled at him until he was standing, kissing him regardless of the way her wetness was spreading across her own face--and then he felt her fingers at his belt, unbuckling and then spreading his tabards. He pulled back, helping her open his pants, and she pulled up her own skirt to her waist. 

He blinked at her, surprised. “You sure? Here?” 

Padmé just nodded, and Anakin had to kiss her again--had to kiss her as he lifted her leg again, reaching under her other leg to lift her up, using his body and the Force to hold her against the wall as he lined himself up and sank into her. 

She--oh _Force_ \--she was so hot and wet around him, tight but taking him with ease, and he had to close his eyes and focus on his shields to keep himself from coming and broadcasting it to all who could tell. She sighed, like a piece of her that had been missing was finally returned, and Anakin felt his heart tremble because he felt it too--and he began to rock into her, kissing her neck, her shoulders where he dress was cut away, and she clung to him as they moved. 

Oversensitized as she was, Padmé’s clenched and trembled around him, meeting each thrust with a high and breathy cry as she built once more--Anakin could feel it, all around him, pulling him along with her, and when she shuddered, biting into the leather of his tabards to stifle her cry, he came deep inside her, clutching her to him as the stars burst in around him. 

Slowly, as his breath returned, he set her back on her feet. Padmé leaned back against the wall for a moment, one hand pressed at the base of her throat, the other still clutching his sleeve. His own hands cupped her face, kissing her gently. 

After a moment, she giggled. 

“What?” he whispered. 

“You have my makeup all over your face,” she said, and bit her lip. 

Anakin groaned, and leaned in, pressing his forehead against the wall next to her head, careful not to press his face to her dress. “Is there a blind path to the bathroom?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled. 

Padmé let out another giggle, and then swallowed it down, though her amusement was clear in her voice. “Of course there is; that’s why I picked this place.” 

Anakin lifted his head then. “I love you, my wife,” he said. 

Padmé smiled at him. “I know,” she said, and took his hand, leading him away. 

(Ultimately, Anakin longed for the war to end, so he could spend all his time with is lovely wife. 

Padmé only hoped that, when the smoke cleared and the dust settled, she would still be in his arms).


End file.
